by S. L. Lim
Almost implausibly, he winked. Yannie had an impulse to run screaming from the room.
*
Afterwards Evelyn said, ‘Don’t you think he’s just the same as he was before? Even when he was much younger?’
‘Who?’
‘Shan, of course!’ Evelyn blinked, as if surprised Yannie ever thought about anybody else. ‘Don’t you think so? Based on his looks he has hardly aged at all. So different from me – he has so much energy. This must be where Kat gets it from. Certainly not from my side of the family.’ ‘Yes,’ said Yannie, not wanting to provoke another monologue detailing her brother’s virtues as a husband. ‘By the way, I had a chat with another staff member. Meng, he said his name was. Chinese guy with grey hair.’
‘Meng?’ A look of confusion flashed across Evelyn’s face. ‘Oh, of course! I heard the two of you had a good chat.’ Her eyes took on a roguish expression. ‘In fact, I heard the two of you were getting on like a house on fire. Did you swap contact details?’
Yannie knew what was coming. Several times over the previous weeks, Evelyn had tried to broach the topic of why Yannie had never married, and each time Yannie had unforgivingly shut her down. ‘No, I didn’t, unfortunately. But I’ll be sure to get in touch. It’s an interesting history, isn’t it? He mentioned some old man named Dr Stafford.’
‘Oh, Dr Stafford.’ Evelyn looked away, seeming to lose interest at once. ‘What, you mean that old geezer is still alive? He was already an old man when Shan first started. I think he was getting ready to retire. A bit out of touch, I think.’ She hesitated. ‘Of course, it was hard for him. Shan had to step up, make some very big changes so the business would survive. No – Yannie, I see what you’re doing, you’re changing the subject, don’t try and wriggle out of it! You must tell me about Meng! Do you often make new friends like that?’
‘Well, not often …’ Yannie forced herself to giggle, and managed a passable imitation of being coy. Evelyn did not need to know the long fuse of her anger, nor the slow pleading of her heart.
3
Silence on Skype
Around this time she got an email from Jun. She skimmed it twice before closing the lid of Kat’s laptop. She could hear Evelyn’s voice from the kitchen, calling all of them to dinner.
Hello, Yannie. How are you?
It is hot over here, as usual. On Friday evening, the pasar malam was bigger than usual because a dignitary from Indonesia had said that he was planning to visit. Unfortunately, he did not turn up in the end. However, there were still many stalls with food and interesting things to look at. I wished that you were here so we could visit it together.
Last weekend, because it was the anniversary, I went to visit my wife at the cemetery. Unfortunately, the family of the grave next to hers have decorated it very badly. They have covered it with pink and red plastic flowers. They have also painted the headstone in a garish colour. I was very angry when I saw it. However, the caretaker said there was nothing he could do about it, since it is their family’s grave and they can do whatever they like for decoration.
I also visited the temple for my mother. As I have mentioned, the temple where her ashes are kept is adjacent to the cemetery. I wanted to leave an offering, however, there were many stray cats eating the food that has been left. This may spread disease to those around, including the primary school that is in the area. So after making the offering to my mother, I removed the food from the area. Next time, maybe the two of us can go together.
I hope you are enjoying your long holiday. I hope that your brother is well. Tell him that I often think about our schooldays!
I would like to see and speak again with you very soon. The other day, Shuying asked me what you were doing, but I did not know how to respond.
Many Kind Wishes,
Ng Jun Jie (Joe)
Over dinner Kat tried to tell them all about a new band she had discovered, who were apparently the ‘best thing ever’ both lyrically and musically. (Many things were ‘the best’ to Kat when she tried them for the first time: music, television, dessert.) She directed this monologue at Yannie, her mother and father having long since lost patience. Normally, Yannie found it easy enough to nod and interject at intervals, allowing the flow of words to wash over her, appreciating their contour and shape rather than their meaning. She liked Kat’s enthusiasm, her effortless belief in the value of her passions.
Today, though, she found it hard to concentrate. The thought of Jun’s email kept intruding: why had Shuying been asking about her? She saw Shuying standing behind the bars of the front gate of the house she shared with her husband. She imagined Shuying’s voice, so boisterous and raucous at school, now thinned to the point where you had to lean in sometimes to hear what she was saying. The slight wave, so unusual in a Chinese, that had not vanished from her hair.
She tried calling Jun on Skype but nobody answered, though the little green icon said he was online. She called twice, then logged out and sat next to the window. This was her favourite time, when the sky turned pink and the heat had drained out of the sunshine. There was a blank space left in her mind by the unanswered questions in the email, and she tried to fill that space with music.
Lately, she had begun to familiarise herself with Kat’s music collection. To her surprise, she found the process quite pleasurable. Up till now, apart from Miley Cyrus, the music of her choice had been mostly classical. She liked listening to symphonies – it didn’t matter who they were by, she just liked being carried away on waves of strong but ill-defined emotion. She had not turned to music to illustrate any truths about her life. Rather, she had yearned towards its promise of a more refined existence, where financial imperatives and bodily functions were forbidden to enter. Pop music at its best was a distraction; you smiled and tapped your foot to it, in situations like weddings where you were supposed to be having ‘fun’, whatever that was supposed to mean. She had never before encountered something like this, this feel-good pain, this aestheticised sadness:
‘Falling in Love with the Wolfboy’
‘The City in the Rain’
‘Lovers from the Moon’
I could write something like that, she thought. If I had the time, and also the talent. Which means I couldn’t write anything like it at all. Feeling isn’t enough, no matter how sincere. If that was all you needed to make beautiful things, this world would be made of diamonds. Time truly was the enemy. If you examined your life as divided into discrete units, it looked OK, mostly. There was a reason why you did everything; a reason, too, why you failed to accomplish what you set out to achieve. But if you looked at it whole, you could hardly avoid the conclusion that it was less than the sum of its parts. There was no overarching theme, no unifying principle. It was a tale of survival only, and very limited in its dimensions.
The song trailed off. She fiddled around with Kat’s Spotify, looking for another playlist. Her eyes fell on a large closed sketchpad Kat had left on the study table. She picked it up, finding it heavier than she expected. She had never seen any of Kat’s drawings, or discussed them with her. Kat, who talked of everything at length, would not talk about that. Sometimes Yannie would come across her in some unlit part of the house, pencil in hand, head bowed in furtive concentration. If she sensed you behind her she would stiffen, raising her arms instinctively to block the unfinished work from view.
She wanted to open the sketchpad but had an intuitive sense Kat would regard such a breach as unforgivable.
Her phone shivered on the table. It was Evelyn, asking if Yannie wanted to come for lunch with Meng. ‘He goes to visit Dr Stafford at the nursing home,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of him to go so regularly, but sad he has to do it all alone. I thought it would be nice to keep him company for once. Just hop in a taxi – no, don’t worry, I will pay when you get here.’
Yannie hopped in a taxi. But when she arrived at the nursing home, Evelyn suddenly recalled another, far more pressing appointment, which she absolutely had to attend i
n person. Over Yannie’s protestations, she hailed the departing cab, leaving Yannie and a sheepish-looking Meng to visit Shan’s old boss together.
*
There were many things to notice about the nursing home. One was the odour. Though it hadn’t quite yet reached hospital levels, the smell of disinfectant was pervasive. Another was the ethnic division between patients and staff. It seemed that all the nurses and caretakers were persons of some sort of colour, Filipino or otherwise Asian-looking, while all the elderly residents (patients? inmates?) were white.
For Yannie, though, the greatest shock was the sheer volume of old people gathered together. She’d never been in a home before, and the whole place gave her a queasy feeling. She wished that Evelyn was there to guide her. If Evelyn were with her, Yannie was sure, she would feel more immune to the smells, the low ceilings, the electric light and lack of windows in the corridor, so you couldn’t tell what time of day it was. As with everything else, she would sweep through this unfamiliar realm with her natural grace and assurance. After all, it was Evelyn who had proposed the excursion in the first place.
But Evelyn had evaporated, and so Yannie and Meng found themselves alone in each other’s company, walking awkwardly in single file down the narrow residential corridor. There was a constant background hum, possibly ambient noise from the air conditioner, or from the generator they had on standby to keep the life-support equipment going if the power cut out. Yannie, walking ahead, could barely hear Meng’s footsteps as he followed behind her. Every thirty seconds or so she would turn around, just to reassure herself she hadn’t got lost, since every part of the home looked just like every other. Glancing back, she was reassured and faintly touched to find him still following behind her, toddling along.
They reached number 105, the door to Dr Stafford’s room. It had a wreath hung on a hook. Nearby, there was a corkboard with a laminated A4 notice which proclaimed the following:
HOW TO KEEP COOL OVER THE SUMMER
Helpful tips to keep you looking and
feeling your best this holiday season!
Rule 1 – Open up a window.
Rule 2 – Turn on a fan.
Rule 3 – Turn on the air conditioning.
Rule 4 – Drink plenty of water.
Rule 5 – Follow the RULES, and you will stay COOL!
This was illustrated with a picture of a cartoon sun wearing sunglasses.
Something brushed lightly against Yannie’s back, making her jump. An old woman wearing a hospital shift and a fluorescent wristband had just walked past. She gave no indication that she was aware of Yannie’s presence, but just kept on walking, staring into the middle distance. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. Yannie noticed that her toes were yellow. She felt a squirm of revulsion and was ashamed of it. The old woman looked about the age her mother would have been, if she were still alive.
On the threshold of Dr Stafford’s room, Meng stopped, straightened his shirt, and wiped his shoes against the carpet. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and Yannie noticed how much younger he looked compared to when she saw him at the office.
The room itself was clean and full of light. Perched on the edge of the bed was an old man so tiny it was as if his limbs had been sketched in the air with a pencil. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed. His hair stood up in a little white cresting tuft. His face was the colour of a walnut but looked less healthy than that. You would have thought he had fallen asleep with his eyes open, except that his hands were balled into fists in the middle of his lap.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Yannie formally.
‘GOOD AFTERNOON,’ said Meng. The volume made her jump. ‘DR STAFFORD, THIS IS YANNIE. SHE IS ON HOLIDAY IN SYDNEY. WE’VE COME TO VISIT YOU FOR LUNCH.’
‘We brought you some peaches,’ Yannie added. She’d been torn between fresh grapes and a jar of supposedly organic peaches that were labelled ‘heavy syrup’. She’d ended up deciding on the latter, thinking it would be safer for old people to eat: no stalks, peel or seeds. Already she mildly regretted her choice. From the look on Meng’s face it was not a faux pas, but not expected, either. She couldn’t think why. They seemed like an inoffensive fruit.
Dr Stafford, however, gave no sign of having heard either of them speak. Yannie turned to Meng, whose shoulders moved in an apologetic shrug. She was just about to walk towards the balcony, wanting to inspect the row of pot plants, when the old man said: ‘This is a private room.’
‘What?’ said Yannie.
‘I said this is PRIVATE.’ Though his lips looked slack, the enunciation was perfect. If there was a label for that voice, it would be BBC Radio Announcer, Circa 1975. Dr Stafford glared at Meng. ‘What is she doing here? I didn’t ask for a nurse. Send her out of here, please.’
Yannie and Meng exchanged glances. Meng said, ‘Dr Stafford, I am sorry, she is not a nurse. This is Yannie Chin. She is a friend of mine.’ He glanced at Yannie, who nodded her approval. ‘I told you before – she is on holiday here in Sydney.’
Dr Stafford looked at them in wonderment. He half raised a hand, let it fall again, then squinted at Yannie’s face with a puzzled expression. Yannie imagined his mind locking on to her features, searching for some point on which its tendrils could gain purchase. ‘Not a nurse … she’s not one of the staff here?’
‘No, she’s NOT.’ Meng had reverted to a volume that was just below shouting level. ‘HER NAME IS YANNIE. SHE’S A FRIEND OF MINE.’
‘Oh.’ Dr Stafford’s eyes drifted for a moment, sliding up and down Yannie’s torso. It wasn’t obviously sleazy, but it made her uncomfortable. ‘Is she your wife?’
‘No,’ they said together. Meng sighed, a deep exhalation from the bottom of his chest. ‘This is Yannie Chin, she’s visiting from … oh, never mind.’
Together they hoisted Dr Stafford into his wheelchair, which was less cumbersome than Yannie had imagined. In spite of what had once been a formidable height, Dr Stafford wasn’t actually very heavy. His limbs were spindly, folding at the joints like collapsible tent poles. He became quite cheerful as they manoeuvred him into the lift, pushing his chair towards the outdoor dining area. ‘Well, this is nice, isn’t it? This is really very nice.’
On the way they passed a Korean-looking nurse, who said ‘Good afternoon!’ to no-one in particular. Catching sight of Yannie, she added, ‘Is Shan – Mr Chin – come to visit again today?’
‘No,’ said Yannie. ‘How did you know we were related?’
‘Oh, I just guess. Your face look very similar.’ The nurse, whose name tag read ‘Soo Kim’, smiled warmly at Yannie. ‘You, very kind. Very nice of you to come.’ She added, in a stage whisper, ‘Real children can’t be bothered.’
‘Oh, well.’ Yannie dropped her eyes to the carpet. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’
‘Ah – not your idea! But still, very nice.’
Meng said, ‘Does Shan come by often?’
‘Oh, he drops by every now and then, now and then,’ interjected Dr Stafford. ‘Only comes when he needs me, of course. Like they all do. Needs my advice.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Meng leaned in, interested. ‘What does he say?’
‘Huh?’
‘WHAT DOES HE SAY?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dr Stafford shrugged. ‘Oh look, is that a pigeon? My eyes aren’t so good.’
After the disinfectant-smelling interior, it was a genuine pleasure to be outdoors. Another nurse came over bearing a plate of mashed potato, boiled vegetables and tuna. Meng applied himself to the task of using a long-handled spoon to insert these into Dr Stafford’s mouth. He did this well and conscientiously. Even Yannie, with her long experience looking after old people, was impressed.
Half a dozen other inmates were having their lunch, with varying degrees of slurping noises. At some point Yannie got up to refill the water jug and bumped into a white-haired lady in the kitchen. She froze, fearing that her looks might cause offence. But the old lady looked at her quite kindly and said, ‘There’s apple juice in the fri
dge, love. Help yourself.’
On her way back with the juice, another old lady accosted her in the doorway. ‘Did you take those chairs over there?’ she asked, pointing an accusing finger at where Dr Stafford and Meng were sitting.
‘Yes …’
‘Well, those were the chairs I normally use.’
Yannie looked around the dining room. Twenty or so chairs stood around unoccupied. As far as she could tell, they were identical to the ones they had taken. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You didn’t know. Well, isn’t that always the story with you people. You didn’t know. But that didn’t stop you from just taking what you wanted.’
Other inmates were turning around. Some looked confused. Others plainly were enjoying the spectacle. Yannie felt she was addressing a crowded theatre. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, making the effort to project her voice so everyone could hear. ‘I’ll bring you another chair to use.’
‘Oh no. You’re all right. You’re quite all right. I don’t want to sit next to you – no, no, no.’ The old lady glared viciously at Yannie. She hobbled off, still murmuring various imprecations.
There was a moment of silence. Then the chatter began slowly to come back, tinged with slight disappointment that the conflict had not yielded more spectacular results.
Another ancient being caught Yannie’s eye and beckoned for her to come closer. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ she said. ‘Everybody has trouble with that one. One of these days she’ll fall over, break her hip and die.’ She smiled radiantly at Yannie.
Back in the courtyard, fortified by the peaches and tuna, Dr Stafford grew more and more convivial. He was regaling Meng with an anecdote which, as far as Yannie could tell, concerned some triumph from their shared professional life. ‘We had some times, we had good times,’ he kept on saying. Meng agreed that they had. A small tributary of potato was trickling from Dr Stafford’s lips. When Meng made to clean it up, the old man waved him off and said, ‘I can do it for myself!’ He then proceeded to dab vigorously at his own face with a serviette. Few of these dabs connected with his mouth, but eventually he succeeded in getting the job done.
